Sing Me My Life
by OMGimprocrastinating
Summary: John is a siren. Less of a seductive-personality and more of a possible-cult-leader-like-status if John is keen on it. Which, he isn't.


John's mother said to him that before he learnt how to talk, he already learnt how to follow a tune. John figured it came from an early age where John's mum would often sing to him always in private ever since he was a baby and that the two of them somehow learnt to communicate without words even if all she did was hum him a song. He felt that what they did was special because even dad and Harry didn't get to hear mum sing so he never sang or hummed if there were anyone else except his mum.

When John was five, he found himself playing at the park watched by his mother who was also keeping a watch out for Harry playing with the other children in the neighbourhood. The older kids weren't interested in playing with him so he contented himself playing with his tin bus, pushing it across the grass as he sang quietly to himself, _The wheels of the bus go round and round. Round and round. Round and round. The wheels of the bus go round and round. All day long..._  
He sang it on a loop - they were the only the words that he knew in the song but it was enough to entertain him until a shadow fell across him, startling John into looking up.

She was one of those scruffy looking people, all smelly and dirty who he sometimes sees loitering around the neighbourhood but never in the park when it's full of families in the weekend, until now.

John stared at the woman and she stared back, the brightness of her eyes popping out from beneath the darkness of dirt and grime covering her wrinkly skin. Afraid, John stood up and started to back away but the woman instantly stepped forward, her arms outstretched as if wanting to hold him from running away.

"Mum!" John screamed and the woman cried, pleading that John _stay, don't run away! Please, no!_

John's mother saw and she ran towards him, scooping him up in her arms and he thought the bad woman was about to fight her mum for him when the woman was suddenly overpowered by some of the men who were out at the park with their kids and wives. A few minutes later, the woman was dragged away by the police, screaming bloody murder while pleading not to be taken away from that _beautiful, beautiful boy, please let me be with him!_

Shaken up, John kept himself huddled in his mother's arms as she brought him and Harry back to their flat. After they washed up for bed, their mum tucked Harry in before she took John to her bedroom where she asked him what happened in the park that afternoon.

"Were you singing?" his mother asked.

John thought that he has done something bad and he was about to deny it when he saw the worried but patient look on his mum's face. Slowly, John nodded.

His mother sighed. "John, sweetheart... you can't sing where there's people around. It makes people ... become bad."

He looked up at her in confusion. "But I sing to you and you don't become bad."

"I'm different, sweetheart. We are the same. Do you remember mummy singing to anyone other than you?"

The boy shook his head.

"That's because when I sing, people change, too. Always bad. Even if it's just humming."

"Like that woman in the park?"

"Yes, like that woman in the park," his mother said, holding his hand.

"She scared me. I won't sing anymore," John said hugging his mother tight.

"Oh you can sing, sweetie," John's mother said, stroking his head lovingly, "You can't not. The music is in you. Just make sure you sing when you're alone. Or with mummy."

John nodded against her chest in understanding.

* * *

Ten years later, John found a word in one of the books from his community library that would give a hint of what he and his mother are. Sirens. Not that they lived anywhere near the sea or had wings or scales like in the pictures, but the idea does have merit. Being a teenager with curiosity par his age, John began to experiment.

First he tried it out with the stray animals loitering near his house, singing to them a little tune and they'd follow him everywhere, even the wildest of the bunch.

The animals did not stay with him for long though, only staying for about an hour before they slunk away to look for food or something else more entertaining than a boy who managed to capture their attention for a chunk of time in their short lives.

Then John tried with a person. She one of the girls at school who would not give him the time of day and at that moment did not deign to glance at his direction when it was just the two of them waiting for the bus. It was a perfect opportunity and he couldn't not so he let a little song slip from his lips and instantly, the girl was enraptured, looking at him as if he was the most amazing person in the world. She followed him into the bus and even let her stop pass by just so she could get off at the park with him where he once was nearly accosted by the homeless woman when he was little.

John tried talking to her but she would just nod, giving mindless noises of affirmation and smiling as she stared at him until he grew uncomfortable. He finally stopped talking and just waited it out as they sat on one of the seats near the playground. It took nearly two hours before the shine in her eyes dimmed and she stood up, flustered and a little bit annoyed that she would get infatuated by a short scrawny boy from school. As soon as the girl left on the next bus back to her home, John rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. His mum must've drilled some good morals into him because it felt terribly Not Good.

John decided not to do anymore siren calls (as he started to term them as) except with animals (because as his mum said, he cannot not sing) until two years later when Harry came home upset. Some guy called her a tart in front of her school mates because she wouldn't give him the time of day. John knew the boy in question - Steven Brokersfield - a posh uppity public-school snob who lived in the upper crust side of their neighbourhood who all the girls in John's class said looked handsome and the boys in John's class detested the pompous arse with the same passion. Now, John has joined the list of boys who would pay to smash the boy's face in but why hurt him when he could humiliate him instead like what he did with Harry?

The next day, John walked up to Steven Brokersfield who was sitting with his mates in the ice-cream parlour and since the boy was sitting at the end of the bar, it was easy for John to stand on his tip-toe and whisper a small tune into the boy's ear.  
Steven was instantly enamoured with John and with just a few words, the boy walked away from his friends to approach Harry who was just entering the parlour, to prostate himself in front of her on his hands and knees. To say that everyone was surprised was an understatement and after enjoying the befuddled expression on Harry's face, he left intending to let his sister enjoy the moment of being exalted by her most recent tormentor. However, before he could even round the corner after slipping out the back door, someone grabbed him on his shoulder and pushed him up against the wall hard.

It was Steven, and there was that familiar brightness in the boy's eyes as he demanded _where the hell do you think you're going? You're not supposed to leave me ever!_

It felt just like that time in the park with the homeless woman and he shrunk away from the feverish look in Steven's eyes.

"Alright, alright! I'm... I'm not going away Steven. I'll stay yeah? I'll just... stay here with you," John said, gripping Steven's arm. With how hard the boy was still clutching at his shoulders, John did not doubt that he would leave bruises.

After a while the hold on his shoulder loosened and John gained confidence to say some soothing words to make the boy more relaxed until he released John completely.

Quickly, he led Steven far away from the after-school crowd before anyone notices them making a ruckus at the back of the building.

Like with Lily, John brought Steven somewhere quiet to wait out the effect of the siren call and it was a good thing they were sitting at a closed-off part of the park because unlike Lily, Steven was less shy of expressing his devotion. As soon as they sat on the patch of grass, Steven held one of John's hand and would not let go even when their hands have grown hot and sweaty. It was also worrying when every time Steven ducked his head towards him, John would keep thinking that the boys was about to kiss him but instead all he did was to sniff at John as if wanting to breathe him in.

It took more than two hours for Steven to shake off the call and it came off as gradual as it did to Lily. The brightness in the boy's eyes' faded slowly and John knew when he made a suggestion that Steven should leave and go home, that the boy would do so with just a confused glance back to John's direction.

* * *

After that, John did not attempt anymore calls upon people until years later when he was fighting for his Queen and Country in the hills of Afghanistan where one of the rebels, 16 by the looks of him, found John alone about to take a leak behind one of the grey gnarled trees dotting the country-side. John knew he would not be able to pick up his gun from where he hung it on one of the branches of the tree before the boy pulled the trigger so even before the rebel made a move to take aim, John began to sing, _I got my first real six-string. Bought it at the five-and-dime. Played it 'till my fingers bled was the summer of 69. Me and some guys from school. Had a band and we tried real hard. Jimmy quit and Jody got married. Shoulda known we'd never get far. oh when I look back now. That summer seemed to last forever. And if I had the choice. Yeah - I'd always wanna be there. Those were the best days of my life._ John's voice shook and stuttered but the call still got through because the boy was slowly lowering his weapon to stare at John in wonder.

John quickly called back to his mates and they came charging in as the doctor quickly zipped up and managed to point his gun towards the still mind-addled rebel. There was a brief struggle when they attempted to bring the boy back to their camp and they only managed without injury when John told the boy in his broken Pashto clumsily mixed with Dari that the Afghan should keep quiet and follow them.

It took them nearly three hours to get back to camp with the captive and by that time the rebel has already waken up from his call and refused to take any more orders from John.

"Not keen on you anymore, is he?" Bill commented, after the rebel spat at John's feet and glared at him in distrust.

John chuckled dryly. "Kids. One moment they love you and the next they don't."

Bill huffed in laughter and left it at that.

John wondered if he could help win the war (and many others) with his singing but instantly put a squash on that thought because he knew that all it would do is enchant two sides into agreeing with each other for a few hours when their real belief and conviction would last them a life time and he isn't the man who wants to dedicate his life to maintain peace with lies and illusions.

After that it was easier for John to tell himself that his skill should only be used under duress and not when anyone would figure out what he could do which is to command with a song. Any power hungry person would want to have control of him and he'd rather stay normal and unnoticed, thank you very much.

* * *

John took his own promise to heart because When he got shot on the shoulder a few weeks later and felt like he could die from the pain, he did not use his singing to get better painkillers. Nor did he attempt a tune to have his walking papers overturned when he knew he was being discharged three months later and sent back to London. Or when he had to attend psychiatric sessions to have his doctor give favourable evaluations.  
He did not even sing a song to Harry every time she went on one of her alcoholic binges to have her stop drinking and stop becoming a right pain to him and her ex, Clara. Nor did he sing to coax the landlord into giving him a better accommodation because he was so close to offing himself in the dreary bedsit he managed to acquire when he came back from Afghanistan rather than live with his alcoholic sister.

His patience must have been rewarded somehow because suddenly, he was living with a wonderful genius named Sherlock Holmes who not only gave him a purpose and excitement in life after the army but also a friendship that is as thorny as it is euphoric. Sherlock is so clever that John knows that if anyone could figure out his ability and keep it safe, it would be him and it would be during one of those life-threatening situations the man always managed to drag them into or during those quiet hours when Sherlock would go on one of his jaunts in his mind palace.

It was a testament how too fantastical he imagined his reveal would be because when it actually happened, the moment felt anti-climatic especially since it happened by accident when all he was doing was making tea in their kitchen one Saturday afternoon.

Not seeing Sherlock's coat on the hanger, John thought that his flatmate was out so as he waited for the tea to steep, John started to hum a tune. Slowly the words to the song came out, filling the room with his cheerful voice _Word up, everybody say. When you hear the call, you've got to get it underway. Word up, it's the code word. No matter where you say it, you'll know that you'll be heard now.._

When he turned around, John nearly dropped his mug of tea with shock because standing at the threshold, staring at him like he was a Nobel Laurette of science and deduction was Sherlock Holmes.

What came out of John's mouth was a squeak before he tried again. "Umm... hi... I... I thought you were out."

"No, no," Sherlock said, stepping towards John, "I'm never going to leave again."

John sighed. "Right." And just because he figured it was probably the only time he could make Sherlock do something without feeling guilty (it was not his fault he thought Sherlock has gone out and walked in on him when he was singing because please, who wears a coat in an apartment during summer?) John took out a tin of biscuits and made another cup of tea with a dash of milk for Sherlock because he knew the man was out of important cases for the week and he did not see Sherlock take anything last night other than tea and nicotine patches.

By the time the daze wore off, John and Sherlock managed to finish a plate of biscuits between them and their tea was long gone. The doctor knew when Sherlock was able to get his mind back on track because he saw it in the man's eyes, his posture and the look on his face which tells of gaining lucidity and consciousness.

"Willis, John?" was what Sherlock asked first thing.

"I like Willis," John said affronted, "I'm surprised you even know the singer's name."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's in your phone's memory card and it keeps playing every time Sarah calls."

"Would you have rather I hum the theme song to Miss Marple?" he said of the ring tone he assigned for Sherlock's number.

The consulting detective shrugged. "You should. For the sake of maintaining proper results on the different resonances from different genre."

"I've just been relegated into an experiment, have I?" said John wryly. "You're not horrified that you've just been mind-controlled but eager to have me sing again. Sherlock Holmes, you are mad."

Sherlock looked at him and this time the brightness in his eyes was not that of the magically enchanted but of that that's similar to when John shot a cabby for him, or when John held onto a psychopath while being strapped to a bomb, and all those moments before they started giggling like giddy schoolboys after doing something no sane person would do.

"I would trust my mind in your hands as I do my life." Sherlock told him, "Because you John Watson, are amazing."


End file.
